


And It Could Always Be Like This

by supposed2bfunny



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2Doc AU, AU, Bird!AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, just massive amounts of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposed2bfunny/pseuds/supposed2bfunny
Summary: Written for DirtyDirk's Bird!Au. Murdoc is carving a beautiful wooden box. Stuart wants to know what it's for. Talk of the sky, of the nature of irrational fears, and of the future ensures.
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	And It Could Always Be Like This

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was commissioned by the lovely [Chwen](https://www.instagram.com/hwang_chwen/) over on Instagram as a belated birthday gift for [Dirty Derk](https://www.instagram.com/dirtyderk/) (happy late birthday!).
> 
> The fic is inspired by his Bird!Au, which you can explore on his Instagram! It's really stunning; if you haven't checked it out, do that before reading this!
> 
> As ever, feedback is super appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Murdoc tends to be most content in chaos, in a home cluttered with the items he has amassed from friends over the years, mementos from all of his proudest experiences. Ever the corvid, his love of shiny things, of snagging items that are not explicitly for him (that crystal ashtray on his bedside table was definitely not a gift) has led him to live in a home that glitters with useless crap.

Murdoc’s workshop is a different story.

Stuart loves going in there, although he’d never dare step foot inside without an invitation. When he inters the workshop, he is immediately overcome by a sense of calm that washes over him, seeing everything in its proper place.

There are dozens and dozens of chisels, arranged by size, carving gouges, veiners with elaborately-decorated handles. They are all arranged in such a way that they are readily-accessible, easy to find. Whatever tool Murdoc needs for his woodwork, he can secure it instantly. Many of the tools he uses are parts of sets; others he has purchased special. He’s especially fond of a roughing knife that’s carved to look like a glossy black feather, and he never uses, but often shows off his full carving set packed away in plush red velvet, which he found in a thrift store years ago for a bargain, but estimates is probably worth several hundred dollars minimum. Stuart has heard that story countless times, but he never tires of the glimmer in Murdoc’s eyes, the delight he takes in showing off.

There are electronic tools as well, naturally. He has two sanders, an electric polishing set that can also be used for engraving. But Murdoc does his best work with his hands, and that’s where Stuart finds him one quite afternoon, gently sanding down a long, thin box.

“Still working on that, then?” He asks, walking into the room once Murdoc has granted him permission.

“Yep. Almost done.” 

“Commissioned, or is this for you?”

“Oh no, this is purely for me,” he replies, and Stuart comes to lean against his work bench, watching him contentedly. They don’t need to speak: Murdoc being lost in his work, and Stuart getting to watch him create quietly, is enough. They’ve spent plenty of afternoons this way, the younger man admiring Murdoc at his work, using his creativity to craft all sorts of carvings and knick-knacks to sell to tourists. For someone who dresses in mostly black, there is a whimsical quality to the carvings he creates. Stuart thinks often of Murdoc’s difficult childhood, of his single mother trying to support her son. Perhaps his childlike creativity is a result of having to grow up so fast, a push-back against the society that never let him be a boy.

They pass a few minutes in this amicable peace, each lost in their own thoughts, but eventually, curiosity gets the better of the younger man.

“Jewelry box, is it?”

“Nope.” Murdoc keeps his eyes trained on his work, swapping out one gouge for an even smaller one as he begins to decorate the side of the box with a pattern he’s sketched out in charcoal.

“Is it to hold…incense?” Stuart finds that he’s having a hard time thinking of what such a long, thin box would be good for.

“Mate, since when do either of us light incense?” He asks, but there is no impatience to his tone. He’s enjoying his work, and he’s enjoying making Stuart guess what he’s doing.

“Could it be…a case to hold a violin bow?”

Now Murdoc dips his head down to chuckle, a low, throaty rumble. “Pretty sure the bow just goes in the violin case, dummy.”

“Well excuse me for guessing,” he replies, sidling over so he can rest his head on Murdoc’s shoulder, watching his hands work more closely. “Hey that design…” he trails off, light blue eyes focusing on the delicate pattern that Murdoc is engraving into the side of the wood. 

“Recognize it?” 

“That’s one of the tattoos that I designed…for you. The raven and the macaw.”

“Very good, Stu.”

“Why are you putting _my_ design on that box?”

His hands still, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sets his work down, turns in his wheeled chair to look into Stu’s eyes. “Did you know that back when I was young, before we met, I had acrophobia?”

He doesn’t know why Murdoc is answering a question with another question, but as he pauses to collect his thoughts, it occurs to him for the first time since entering the room that Murdoc isn’t blasting music as he often does. From his favorites like Black Sabbath to what he refers to as “white noise;” (Santana, The Beatles), he’s almost always got something on to listen to while he works. Stuart likes it, this quiet. He realizes that he likes the sound of nothing but their breathing in the same space together, the sort of thing that’s easy to take for granted until the sound of the world’s revolution ceases for a moment. He becomes hyperaware of the intimate ground they are stepping on as he stumbles after Murdoc into this conversation.

Something in his expression must convey this, because Murdoc’s intense look softens a bit, and he pushes the chair back away from his desk, motions for Stuart to take a seat on his lap, which he does, immediately reaching for the drawstrings of the oversized hoodie that the older man is wearing and fiddling with them.

“You never mentioned that, no. What’s acrophobia?”

“Fear of heights. I used to freak out climbing flights of stairs, couldn’t stand near windows in buildings that were higher than two or three floors, for a while it was so bad that I refused to look up. Flying was out of the question, of course.”

“You didn’t fly as a kid?” Stu asks in horror. He’s fairly certain his parents told him that it was a vital part of childhood development to help the wings grow in properly. It was the same as learning to walk or speak: it was a skill that was supposed to be nurtured.

“I learned later in life, it’s fine,” he replies gruffly. “Point is, I liked to be grounded. Even just…even just looking up at the sky used to give me this sort of dread, mate. I can hardly put it to words.”

“Were you afraid of falling?”

“No, the opposite! I wasn’t afraid of heights or the sky because I was afraid of falling…I was afraid of going up so high, facing whatever was up there, not being able to come down.”

“What do you mean, what’s up there? Like clouds? Clouds are fluffy and pretty, Murdoc.”

“Clouds, God, dunno. I can’t say. It felt like above held some sort of authority over me, and I hated it. Some people fear the ocean for its vastness, don’t they? And some people, you mention deep space, the expanding universe, and they blanch, yeah? Well for me, it was the sky. Anyway, none of this is even the point. Point is, I used to have these fears. They used to be a part of me. And they began to ebb away over time. And by the time I met you, well…I started to feel more grounded than I’d ever felt in all my years clinging to the earth.”

“Oh… _Muds_ …”

“The tattoo on my shoulder blades that you designed, I asked you to draw me birds, right? Wanted their wings on my wings. Profile silhouettes of a raven and a macaw…you and me. I wanted those images on my skin to remind me of what I’m capable of being when I’m near you.”

He’s blushing, he knows he’s blushing. “I was so happy when you liked my design. I didn’t realize there was so much meaning behind it…”

“I wanted it to serve as a kind of reminder,” Murdoc says, touching his pink cheeks with his fingertips. “With you, I’d venture up into a night sky. I’d follow any star or moon, I’d fly straight into the sun if you promised you’d be there on the other side.”

Stuart leans down, kisses Murdoc’s temple. “Guess that’s why they call it ‘falling in love,’ not something like ‘floating in love,’ right?” He asks, chest bubbling with how fond he is. When Murdoc talks like this, earnestly, openly, he says such interesting things. “It’s a grounding experience. Everything feels more certain when you’ve found your other half.”

“That could be it,” he mumbles, clearly a little embarrassed.

“I’d like to fly with you sometime,” Stuart says. “Now that I know how much it means to you. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy: we can literally just go up and look at the stars on a clear night. Would you be comfortable with that?”

Murdoc’s arms come around Stuart’s waist, settle there, holding the younger man against him. “Just said I’d fly right to the sun for you, didn’t I? Of course. Any excuse to see those gorgeous wings of yours in action.”

“Oh, I know all about how you love my wings. You never fail to brag about them.”

“Prettiest set I’ve ever seen on anyone! Not like mine, boring and black. Plenty of corvids out there. But you? One of a kind, you are, pet.”

Stuart leans down to kiss his cheek. There are days where it’s hard for him to keep his hands, lips, arms off of the other man. “Thanks, handsome. But I have to disagree. I’m so used to my own plumage. To me, your feathers are the color of charcoal dust on a canvas. Oil-spill iridescent. Y’know…I’ve always found you breathtaking.”

Murdoc stills beneath him as he leans in for another kiss, and for just a moment, he fears he’s gone too far. After all, Murdoc is not the best with affection. He can be awkward when it comes to baring his heart, and often shuts down when receiving genuine kindness as well. Stuart stops kissing him, pulls back and waits for a throaty laugh, for Murdoc to dissimulate and shift the topic of conversation to something he’s more comfortable with, maybe make a lewd joke and start over.

Finally, he picks the box up off his desk and offers it to Stuart. “You really want to know what this is for?”

“Yeah, Muds,” he gives him a goofy smile. “The suspense is killing me.”

“I want to use this box to collect the feathers that we molt over the years. That is…erm…providing you see me in your life years down the line—”

“I can’t believe you can even still have doubts about that; I do!”

“Right, good. Well then, whenever one of us loses a feather or two, I want to keep it. Keep us together. I know you don’t molt as often as I do, and that’s fine. Still. Wanna try to collect what I can.”

“Why?” He doesn’t really have to ask why. He’s familiar with the tradition. Lovers from Victorian times were known to keep locks of one another’s hair woven together, placed in necklaces and brooches. The tradition of trading feathers back and forth between lovers is just as commonplace, just as sacred.

Sacred isn’t a word he’d ever think to ascribe to Murdoc’s behavior.

And yet.

“I want to…to try and hold onto the thing that gives me the confidence to fly, I guess. My feathers, kept together with yours, here where I can touch them and admire them. Mine look like bloody trash bags, sure—”

“They do not!”

“And yours, they look like hydrangeas in the sun, delicate as flakes of ice. Who would ever think two people like that could be together?”

“Happiness like that happens all the time, Muds. You just have to let your eyes be open to it.”

Murdoc blinks in surprise, then nods. “Maybe you’re onto something, luv.”

“This is a really lovely carving,” Stuart says, turning his attention back to the box, hoping to conceal how much he’s blushing. “I can’t wait to see how it looks when you’re done setting color to it. Are you going to add any more of my tattoo designs to the other sides of it?”

“I think it’d look nice, don’t you?” Murdoc’s dark, mismatched eyes are on the box, but Stuart is fairly certain that he isn’t referring to the designs as he speaks.

“I think it’ll look really nice, Muds. My art combined with yours.”

“Harmonious, us.”

Cloudsoft feathers, dusk-kiss blue, laid gently beside inksplash black. Knowing that Murdoc loves him enough to want to preserve these symbols of their relationship to flight makes him giddy. Harmony, he understands well, can be a surprising thing to hear. Stepping through a cluttered home and into a tidy workspace. Tripping over wrong chords, head down, trying not to fall, only to look up, feel the wind catching under your wings: flight, security. He closes his eyes and relaxes into Murdoc’s chest as the older man resumes his work. There is the sound of their breathing, there is the thrum of Murdoc’s heartbeat. And in this everyday comfort, there is resolution.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus! If you like birds, you should check out this [awesome article](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/photograph-birds-in-flight?utm_source=Atlas+Obscura+Daily+Newsletter&utm_campaign=e64a0dc64b-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_01_14&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_f36db9c480-e64a0dc64b-63200449&mc_cid=e64a0dc64b&mc_eid=ec5fb8f6c7) to view some stunning pictures of the flight paths of birds.


End file.
